


Dancing on a Razor's Edge

by English_Tea_Roses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 14:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/English_Tea_Roses/pseuds/English_Tea_Roses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A love that has been told too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before It Happened

Sherlock paced in front of the fireplace, back and forth. He knew it was probably driving Mrs. Hudson insane, but he honestly didn't care. God, why was John taking so long getting home from the surgery? It's not like he had anywhere else to go. After the deaths of his wife, Mary, and his baby daughter, Rose, he had moved back to Baker Street. He couldn't face living in their empty house alone. He spent weeks alone in his room, and if Sherlock dared enter, he would find him just lying in bed, staring at nothing. He rarely showered or shaved, ate little, and jumped at small noises. He would occasionally cry out at night for his wife, and Sherlock made sure to never, ever have a fire in the fireplace lest he have an episode. Sherlock would look into his eyes and see nothing but emptiness, and now some, albeit a small amount, of their old laughter was beginning to come back. For a while, he had completely broken away from the world, but finally he seemed to be improving. He began going back to work and actually started talking again, to Sherlock's delight. To him, the time seemed right. Tonight was the night he was going to tell him.

Sherlock continued to pace, as the clock ticked away the seconds, minutes, nearly an hour. John still wasn't home yet and Sherlock started to worry. What if something awful had happened to him on his way home? Ordinarily, the former military officer could take care of himself, but his grief had weakened him considerably. If taken by surprise, Sherlock knew John could be seriously hurt. His pacing grew faster and more erratic. Soon, he was basically stumbling back and forth across the floor, which was how John found him when he finally got home.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" he asked after he had come through the front door. Sherlock whirled around at the sound of both the door opening and John's voice, his face livid.

"And where have you been?"

In response, John held up a jug of milk. "We were out, so…"

Sherlock nodded. Good, this was good.

John still wasn't sure exactly what was wrong with Sherlock, but he shrugged and put the milk away in the fridge. He was actually feeling okay for the first time in ages; maybe he'd ask Stamford if he wanted to go for a pint in a bit. Sherlock was acting weird and John really didn't feel like dealing with him.

"Well, I think I'll just go th-"

"No!" That came out harsher than Sherlock intended. "No, um, come and sit down."

John was apprehensive at best. What could he possibly want? With his clear agitation, John was concerned.

"Mrs. Hudson, is she…" he couldn't finish the question. Losing the woman who had cared for him more than his own mother ever had was a thought he didn't want to accommodate. Sherlock was shocked; why would he even think that?

"No, she's fine, just, um, come sit down." He was doing this all wrong! He had pictured this going over really smoothly, but when the time came he was stuttering worse than a frightened schoolboy. John decided to humour him and sat in his chair while Sherlock took the chair opposite.

"John, um, I-I have something to say-"

What the hell was his problem? John had never seen him stumbling over a simple sentence rather than his usual eloquent speech.

"Yeah, what is it?"

"I- I, um-" What could he say to make John understand? This was getting ridiculous now.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, spit it out!"

Sherlock couldn't form any more words, so out of pure frustration with himself, he followed his instinct and kissed John full on the mouth. It started exactly as the scene that had so often played out in Sherlock's mind palace, the two of them, in front of the fireplace, totally alone. However, John's reaction was _not_ the one Sherlock either wanted or expected. He sprang up and back so fast that he might've been woken up by a gunshot. He crashed back into the opposite wall, his eyes wide with pure shock.

"What in God's name was _that_ supposed to be?" he blurted out in surprise, and Sherlock's face fell. His heart felt like a stone that had been tossed into an ocean.

"I just thought…" he half-whispered.

"It's been two months, Sherlock, _two months_ since I lost the love of my life."

Those were the words that finally broke him.

"John, I-"

"I need a drink. See you later," John said and left, leaving Sherlock alone in front of the fireplace. Sherlock didn't cry, curse, or even say a single word. He just picked up his phone and dialed a number he hadn't called in years, since he started taking cases. But there was only one way to make himself feel better, and he needed it.

"Tony's Pizza, how can I help you?"

"One medium pepperoni, 221B Baker Street. Send Patrick and tell him to double the parmesan."

"Alright, he'll be there in twenty minutes. Goodbye."

Sherlock hung up the phone. He quietly walked back to his bedroom and pulled the kit, dusty from disuse, out of his wardrobe. He opened it and made sure all of his equipment was in there. He stood there for a moment, until he heard the doorbell ring. He opened it to find the skinny, sunken-eyed ginger delivery boy holding out his pizza.

"That'll be ten quid." Sherlock slipped him the bill and, when Patrick held out his hand for the tip, placed three hundred in his scarred palm. He counted it carefully, nodded, and handed him the small bag of white powder. He grinned and left the flat. Sherlock closed the door and went to his chair, where he had left his kit.

He sat in the chair and rolled up his sleeve. He secured the belt tightly around his bicep, and got out the lighter and tablespoon. He poured the powder into the silver spoon and held the lighter under it, his practiced hand holding the flame steady until the powder had melted into liquid. He put the liquid into the hypodermic without spilling a drop. He positioned the needle carefully over the vein at the bend of his elbow. He stuck it into his arm and pressed the plunger down.

He felt the rush of pure ecstasy, but only for a moment. Quickly, he realized something was very, very wrong. The rush was too big, more than he had ever had before. Then, the pain and cramping started. What had Patrick cut it with? It was something awful, something that could hurt him badly. He ran through his vast knowledge of poisons and knew immediately. _Idiot, idiot, idiot,_ his mind screamed at him. How could he be so stupid? He _knew_ there were those who would wish to do him harm, and he had taken for granted that the bag of powder he was given was just the drug he craved. He put the powder into his bloodstream without a second thought, and he was going to pay for it. Ambulance. Hospital. He reached for his phone in a panic, but realized he had left it on his nightstand in his bedroom when he was getting his kit. He couldn't move out of his chair; the pain was too much. He closed his eyes and then felt nothing at all.


	2. While It Happened

John wandered blindly, still reeling from the shock of what had just happened. He didn’t know where his legs were taking him, only that he had to get as far away from the situation as quickly as possible. He didn’t allow himself to think until he got where he was going, wherever that was; he might not have an impressive mind palace like Sherlock, but the years of training had taught him how to shut down and focus until a task was completed. So John pressed on, aware only of his breathing, heartbeat, and the quiet thumping of his shoes against the pavement.

It was only when his leg hit a solid wooden object that he fully took in his surroundings. He was at a park, in front of a bench. It was the park, the very _bench_ at which he had met Mike Stamford those years ago, bemoaning how he was looking for a flatmate. Instinct’s a funny thing sometimes; this was the spot where he spent the last few minutes of his Sherlock-less existence.  He sat on the bench and let himself work through the situation.

Okay. Breathe. Did what he thought had happened _really_ just happen? He rubbed his lips, remembering the taste on his mouth. Yes, apparently it had. And he had reacted in the absolute worst possible way. He cringed internally; exactly how bad would he have felt if someone had just walked out on him? Awful. Awful was the word he was looking for.

He had hurt his best friend badly. _You bloody idiot,_ his mind shouted _, he finally shows emotion and you just leave? You are, without a doubt, the worst friend in existence._ But what could he do? They were friends, that’s all, the closest of friends. Right? And yet…

He couldn’t deny his attraction to the detective, but he had squashed any thought of the nature almost immediately when it was clear he didn’t have a chance. Or, at least he thought he had it safely tucked away. It was there in the long glances, the comforting companionship, the friendly banter. They’d gotten more intense and frequent since Sherlock’s miraculous return from the dead, but he hadn’t thought it _meant_ anything, for God’s sake. He’d just assumed that Sherlock wasn’t interested and tried never to think about it. But now something was waking up inside him, something that had been dormant for a very long time.

The feeling bloomed like a scarlet flower inside john’s heart, filling him up and making him f warm. _Nothing_ had made him feel like this before, not meeting Mary, not his wedding, not even the birth of his child. None of these events even came close to the feeling a single, short kiss brought. And he didn’t want to forget this feeling; he wanted to curl up inside it and never forget. And he knew he had to say the words out loud.

“I am in love with Sherlock Holmes and have been since practically the moment I met him.” He was met with silence from the empty park. He needed to get up, so he did. He was going back to Baker Street to talk to Sherlock and possibly snog his brains out. He stopped suddenly: what if he’d gone out? He dialed Sherlock’s number and was met with a lot of ringing and then his voicemail. He tried again and got the same result. Thinking that perhaps he just didn’t feel like speaking (he got that way sometimes), he texted him _You okay?_ No response. Ten minutes of waiting later, John began to worry. Because of Sherlock’s compulsion to always have the last word, he never ignored a text. John called Mrs. Hudson.

“Hello, John, dear. Is everything alright?”

“Can you check on Sherlock? He’s not answering his phone.”

“I’m on the other end of the city right now. He’ll be fine, probably just in a sulk. You know what he’s like. I’ve got to go, bye now.” And she hung up the phone.

Yes, John _did_ know what Sherlock was like. When he felt threatened or overwhelmed, he either went into a week-long depression or lashed out violently. John hoped it was the depression and that he wouldn’t have to bail him out of jail. His phone rang, Sherlock’s name displayed on the screen. He answered it.

“About time you called, I was-“

“John, there’s been an accident.” It was not Sherlock’s baritone that greeted him, but the cool, collected voice of Mycroft Holmes. Something had to have been pretty bad before he’d use Sherlock’s phone. John’s stomach dropped.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“Just come to the hospital. I trust it’s not far from the park you’re currently wandering in?” Knowing Mycroft’s habit of tracking his whereabouts, he didn’t question him.

“Right, I’ll be there in a few minutes. What room?”

There was a long pause. “The morgue.”

Mycroft hung up on him. John hoped that there was a new murder, and he’d find Sherlock examining the body and using Mycroft as his secretary. This wasn’t likely, but John didn’t even want to consider the alternative. So he ran as quickly as possibly to the hospital, and burst into the morgue.

Molly was standing over a body, her back to him. When she saw who it was, she tried to block him from getting past.

“John- stop- you don’t want to see this-“

“Let. Me. See.” He pushed past her and the worst sight imaginable met his eyes. The corpse was tall, thin, and pale. John’s eyes traced up his body until he saw the face, frozen into a blue-lipped death mask.

“It’s not real, he’s doing it again, this isn’t him.” John was barely coherent.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, but it really is him. The lab samples are still being processed, but it looks like a massive heroin overdose.”

“Heroin? That’s impossible, he hasn’t used in at least six years,” John rationalized. Molly looked guilty.

“Do you remember that case right after your wedding? Where you found him in a smack house?”

“Yeah, of course, but he was just posing for the case, you said so!”

She looked close to tears.

“I lied for him, okay? He begged, yes actually _begged_ , me not to tell you. Said you’d be so disappointed in him.”

“I’m a bloody doctor, aren’t I? You should’ve told me!”

“I know that now. Look, the lab results are ready. I’ll be right back.” She scurried out, leaving John alone with Sherlock’s body. He didn’t look like him at all anymore. His features were still there, but the life, the energy, the intellect that made him who he was had gone away. Still, John couldn’t tear his eyes away from the face.

“I loved you, Sherlock, and never said. This is my fault!” he said, tears streaming down his face, “If you had known, this wouldn’t have happened. You’d still be you, and not this _empty shell_!”

His throat seized up with and he couldn’t form any more words. He gripped the dead man’s hand and knelt by the examination table, which is where Molly found him when she finally got back. John didn’t move for hours, even after the body had been wheeled away. He just collapsed into silent grief, and couldn’t resurface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Satan now owns my soul.


	3. Aftermath

John put on his best black suit, the one he had only worn twice in his life. He straightened the cuffs and couldn't stop thinking about how Sherlock would hate this, this whole day, the suit, the formality, everything about it. But it didn't matter what Sherlock would think. Funerals, after all, are for the living as opposed to the dead. John put on his tie and frowned at himself in the mirror. He thought of Sherlock, the best friend he ever had and a love that could now never be. He thought of Mary, dead in the heated blaze when the department store she was in burned to the ground, leaving her trapped inside. Of Rose, only six months old, who had fused to her mother's body in the fire. They had to use dental records to identify Mary as she was unrecognizably disfigured. She had been buried with Rose in a single coffin under a single headstone, for their bodies were so intertwined that they were impossible to separate. John wouldn't have wanted them apart anyway. He thought of his comrades and friends from the military, dead with their blood spilling across the hot sand of Afghanistan. His parents, who declared him dead to them when he joined the military. His alcoholic sister, who was locked up in prison for theft.

John had no one anymore. He had outlived all of those whom he loved.

"John, it's time," Mrs. Hudson called, breaking him of his reverie. Well, he guessed he still _technically_ had her, Molly, and Lestrade, but they were really more Sherlock's friends than his. It would be as it was last time; they would remain in contact for a month at most, but then drift away. Grabbing his coat, he left his bedroom.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting at the door in her black dress and coat. They got into the black car that was waiting for them outside and followed the hearse to the funeral parlor. Mrs. Hudson went inside to be with Molly and Sherlock's parents, as well as a few others, while John waited for the other pallbearers. First came Lestrade, then Mike Stamford, then Mycroft escorting a tall, dark-haired man who introduced himself as Victor Trevor.

"We were best mates at university and never really stopped contact. I can't believe he's gone."

The last pallbearer was Sherlock's father, his mouth set by grief. The hearse was opened and the six men took up the coffin and, shouldering it, processed into the church. They set the coffin down in its place at the front of the church and took their seats. The funeral was small, private, with only Sherlock's few close friends in attendance. The minister droned on a bit about death, Mycroft spoke a few words about his brother, and then it was John's turn. He stood up and went to the podium and said the words he had prepared.

"Sherlock Holmes was the best and wisest man I've ever known. I've never had a greater friend in my entire life. He'd hate me for saying it, but he touched so many lives and we all owe him so much. He'll be missed." He could feel the tears coming again, so he quickly went back to his seat.

The 'last goodbye' line moved quickly, as no one wanted to look down on the still body in the black suit. No one wanted to see the spark that had died in his face. John set down his lily-of-the-valley and after the line had ended, once again took up the coffin with the other five and carried it back to the hearse. He got into the black car at the end of the line and followed the funeral procession to the graveyard.

It was only after the coffin was lowered into the ground and began to be covered that it finally hit him: this was it. Sherlock was gone and he was never coming back, not this time. John again choked back tears, though he could tell Mycroft was having as much trouble as he was. Everyone else was crying freely, but John felt that he had to keep it together, at least until later. He looked at Sherlock's sobbing mother, her husband's arms around her as tears flowed down his face, and felt a terrible guilt. _He_ had done this. It was his fault their child had been snatched away from them. As he glanced at the gravestone, he felt a pang of agony as he realized it was a week from Sherlock's birthday. Once he was buried, John tossed his handful of soil onto the grave and left alone. It was only once he got home that he allowed himself to collapse into heaving sobs, in the chair where he had seen Sherlock alive for the very last time.

It was a month later, and John was ready. He had stopped eating days ago, had written his note, had said his goodbyes. He was ready now. He readied his handgun, sat in his chair, and poured himself a tumbler of brandy. Yes, he was finally ready.

John opened his eyes to a warm, white light. Blinking, he took in his surroundings. He was in a Tube station, but it was _cleaner_ somehow. There was a single dove-gray train with only two cars. In one car, he heard raucous male laughter and, recognizing one laugh immediately as Johnson, his fellow medic's, began to follow the sound when the other car opened in front of him, what could only be described as starlight spilling out. This was it; this was where he needed to go. He boarded the car and the door shut behind him. He was not surprised by the three people accompanying him.

"Hello, John, we've been waiting for you for such a long time," said the pretty, blonde woman holding a rosy-cheeked baby girl on her lap. She was unmarked by the fire that had taken her life and was, like baby Rose, wearing a long white gown.

"Took you long enough," said the dark-curled man wearing a pure, immaculate white suit and looking healthier than John had ever seen him. John was conscious of his own clothing, the ones he had been wearing that last day. Sherlock noticed his look and smiled.

"Don't worry about that, you change once you get there."

"But where _is_ there?"

"I guess you could call it The Other Side, if you want to get technical about it," Mary said, "but we don't really know. Oh, John, you're going to love it there."

"So you've been there already?"

"Of course, love, but we came to take you there. That's how it happens, you know, you meet those you miss the most. I met my parents."

"And I met my great-grandfather and Redbeard," Sherlock said. John looked at the three of them with great affection and warmth.

"I love you, all of you."

"We love you too," Sherlock said. John smiled and glanced guiltily at Mary. She laughed.

"None of that matters there. Go ahead if you want to."

John sat next to Sherlock and grasped his hand as the train whistle blew and the train began to move. Speeding away, John saw a sight that gave him the purest euphoria, closed his eyes, and faded into the light's gentle embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering where my soul is, it's playing volleyball with His Dark Lord Lucifer.

**Author's Note:**

> I sold my soul.


End file.
